


Golden

by Fyre



Series: A Little Kindness [24]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Slow Show - mia_ugly
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27857693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Downstairs, Crowley was rattling around in the kitchen. He’d finished his last theatre run earlier in the week and had Plans for their time off. How he could enunciate the word so the capital P was tangible, Avery could never understand, but he had allowed his husband to chivvy him upstairs to the bedroom to relax and get warmed up.
Relationships: Anthony J. Crowley/Avery Fell (Slow Show)
Series: A Little Kindness [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628107
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



> Yes, I'm back on my nonsense, because this scene has been sitting in my brain for months.

Avery had to admit there was something truly delightful about coming home to their country house after an intensive shoot.

The fact that Crowley had arrived two days earlier and had everything cosy and bright and ready for him when he picked him up from the train station only made it better. Especially when the wintry weather was turning the world outside grey and cold.

Rain pattered against the tall windows of the bedroom and he sighed, sinking lower into the steaming water of the bath. Perhaps it was a little cliché, but he had surrounded the thing with candles, basking in the golden glow as much as the hot water.

Downstairs, Crowley was rattling around in the kitchen. He’d finished his last theatre run earlier in the week and had Plans for their time off. How he could enunciate the word so the capital P was tangible, Avery could never understand, but he had allowed his husband to chivvy him upstairs to the bedroom to relax and get warmed up.

He had the radio on too, although it was too quiet for Avery to hear it. And yet he could tell exactly what was playing as Crowley howled merrily along “all I want for Christmas is yooooooooooou!”

Avery smiled drowsily at the ceiling, the water lapping at his chin.

Vaguely, he was aware of his phone buzzing in his trouser pocket on the end of the bed, but frankly, he was on holiday, happily dissolving into soup, and since he’d checked in with all the family on the train journey down, it could wait.

Several minutes later, there was a lull in the clattering of pots and pans downstairs and a few seconds after that, footfalls on the stairs.

“Mind if I come in, angel?”

Avery tilted his head with a smile. “And leave the dinner to burn?” he teased.

Crowley made a face at him, wandering across the room. “Don’t be daft. It’s slow-cooking. Unless you’re going to have your wicked way with me for several hours, it’ll be fine.” He squatted down, moving some of the candles to the side, then settled on his knees, folding his arms on the edge of the tub. “You look shattered.”

“Mm.” Avery gave him a drowsy smile. “I’m afraid there will be no hours of wicked-way having this evening. Ask me again in the morning.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Crowley dipped his finger in the water and flicked it at Avery.

Avery did one better, cuffing a gentle handful straight at Crowley’s grinning face, soaking him.

“Oi!”

“I baptise you and cleanse you of your transgressions,” Avery murmured, snickering.

“We _have_ to get you non-Priest roles,” Crowley complained. “Ugh! Look at this! I’m drenched!” He peeled his t-shirt off, dropping it on the floor with a wet splat.

Avery gave him a heavy-lidded appraising look. “If you’re already wet, you might as well get in.”

His husband smirked at him. “What was that about no wicked-way having?”

“Oh, be quiet,” Avery chuckled. He started to sit up. “I can let some of the water–”

Crowley pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Nah, you bask,” he said, his expression warm and soft. “I’ve still got to finish dessert and you deserve a bit of R&R.”

With no resistance at all, Avery subsided back gratefully, eyes drooping closed.

Crowley propped his chin on his folded arms on the side of the tub. “Listen, you just missed a call from Beez.”

“Oh?” Avery cracked open one eye. “Anything important?”

“Not really,” Crowley said with the kind of casual nonchalance that always made Avery suspicious. “I mean, we’re both going to have to dig out our best suits and make sure they still fit and everything, but–”

Avery levelled a pointed stare at him. “Explain.”

The bloody man was trying hard not to smile, his lips twitching.

“Crowley!” Avery huffed, starting to sit up again.

“Tonight’s nominees for best actor in a television series!” Crowley declared in a passable American accent.

A flood of delight made Avery sit up at once, water sloshing up and splashing over the sides. “You’re nominated again, darling?”

Crowley’s face split in a grin. “Not me, love. Why d’you think Beez called you?”

“Me?”

His husband pointedly turned and looked over each shoulder as if checking for other candidates. “Apparently.”

His heart thundered and he clutched a hand over it. “Really? You’re not teasing?”

“Would I tease you?” Crowley laughed.

“Of course you would,” Avery retorted with a huff, though he was trying desperately hard not to start laughing or crying or perhaps both. “You’re a menace.”

Crowley leaned in over the edge of the tub, stealing a kiss. “We’ll get a matched pair at this rate. One for each end of the mantelpiece.”

“Oh hush.” Avery swatted him. “I haven’t won anything yet.”

“Yet,” his husband said. “We all know you’re a shoe-in after last season’s reviews.”

It was true the reception had been much warmer and the hype about the show being bold enough to have a queer relationship front-and-centre had garnered a lot of praise.

“Still,” Avery insisted. “We can’t get ahead of ourselves.”

“Uh huh. No. Course not. Can’t do that.” Crowley unfolded from the floor. “I should go and make a start on dessert.”

In hindsight, Avery should have wondered at the way Crowley agreed with him. Of course, he could blame being utterly exhausted, but an hour and a half later, when Crowley – trying desperately hard to hide his smile – went to fetch their dessert from the fridge, he very nearly groaned aloud

“Crowley!”

His husband beamed, presenting a caramel-iced profiterole on top of a – how on earth had he made them square? – profiterole tower.

“What?” he asked innocently. “I thought you might like to practise your acceptance face.”

Avery made a moue. “I think people might give me a funny look if I do win and promptly try to eat my award.”

Crowley burst out laughing. “I’d pay good money to see that,” he said, carefully setting the golden-globe-shaped dessert in front of him. “Be careful. I had to use a barbecue skewer or four to make it stand up.”

Avery’s hand automatically moved to his mouth to hide the idiotic smile. “You are hopeless,” he informed his husband. He picked up his fork, then hesitated. “I assume you’ve taken pictures of your masterpiece?”

“Course!” Crowley sounded affronted at the thought he wouldn’t have.

“That will be a perfect way to let the family know.” Avery skewered the golden globe at the top, sticky with caramel and cream. It was such a silly thing to do, but of course Crowley would. He was always so proud of Avery, no matter what. And if this was the only Golden Globe he received, he knew he would be more than happy with it. “Thank you, darling.”

Crowley lolled into his seat with his own bowl of profiteroles and a stupid grin on his face. “Ah, shaddup angel.”


End file.
